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Fiction

Crossing Bridges

By César Antonio Molina
Translated from Spanish by Francisco Macías
In this soaring poem, César Antonio Molina puts us in the shoes of a wanderer on the move.

I crossed the Vltava by way of the Charles Bridge.
I crossed the Neva by way of the Trinity Bridge.
I crossed the Danube by way of the Lion Bridge.

I crossed the Moskva by way of the Novoarbatski Bridge.
I crossed the Sava by way of Branko’s Bridge.
I crossed the Tiber by way of the ponte Sant’Angelo.
I crossed the Seine by way of the pont Mirabeau.
I crossed the bridges of rusted iron over the immense Paraná,
at Gualeguaychú,
and the equally mighty Santa Lucía River
at the entryway of old Montevideo.
And now I am traversing the East River
by way of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Which one of them will be the bridge of my dreams?
I am immobile in the air halfway between
Manhattan and Brooklyn.  The East River at my feet:
dense, uninhabited, without flowing.  So is my blood.
And a bit of a breeze lifting the skirts of the schoolgirls.
Halfway there like the navel of that young woman,
halfway there between the shrunken T-shirt
and the beginning of her marked pubis due to the sagging pants.
Thus I am in the middle of the bridge of Brooklyn,
In the midst of all the bridges of the world.
The noble neo-gothic arches of Manhattan bidding me farewell,
those of Brooklyn awaiting me.
This middle of the road, this power to choose
between continuing or returning, this no-man’s-land
in the middle of the air is, like Whitman wrote,
the best medicine for the soul.
Isn’t the soul also something aerial?
Seated on this bench, in the middle of the bridge,
the jam stops a large black limousine
right between the interstices of the woodwork.
It moves toward Brooklyn but it returns to Manhattan
And so on and so forth.
Here I feel how the axis of my life becomes displaced
from the past unto the present and the four eyes
of the arches conceive my future.
The towers of the bridge, on either side,
despite the fog, they are clearly
defined. They are the twin sisters of the other giants.
Am I daydreaming? Or, more precisely, am I waking from a dream?
I am halfway there and I linger.
My friends take a seat by me,
meanwhile someone takes a photo of us that is veiled
by a cyclist who passes without stopping.
Sorry!
Sorry!
She cries raising her arms from the handlebar.
At least something remained etched in us
of her fresh face.I cross bridges just as storms.
What side will they cast us?
I seek repose in all things.
All of whom passed I met when
I was under the leaves of the fig tree.
When I am weak, then I am strong,
my strength is powerful in weakness.
I cross bridges just as I leave dreams in hotels.
And through the towpaths flow impassive rivers.
Seated upon the bench I remain in silence.
The silence belongs to the art of oratory.
It rains over the Paraná.
It snows over the Neva.
My gaze is so innocent that it deceives. 

“Cruzando puentes” © César Antonio Molina. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Francisco Macías. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

I crossed the Vltava by way of the Charles Bridge.
I crossed the Neva by way of the Trinity Bridge.
I crossed the Danube by way of the Lion Bridge.

I crossed the Moskva by way of the Novoarbatski Bridge.
I crossed the Sava by way of Branko’s Bridge.
I crossed the Tiber by way of the ponte Sant’Angelo.
I crossed the Seine by way of the pont Mirabeau.
I crossed the bridges of rusted iron over the immense Paraná,
at Gualeguaychú,
and the equally mighty Santa Lucía River
at the entryway of old Montevideo.
And now I am traversing the East River
by way of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Which one of them will be the bridge of my dreams?
I am immobile in the air halfway between
Manhattan and Brooklyn.  The East River at my feet:
dense, uninhabited, without flowing.  So is my blood.
And a bit of a breeze lifting the skirts of the schoolgirls.
Halfway there like the navel of that young woman,
halfway there between the shrunken T-shirt
and the beginning of her marked pubis due to the sagging pants.
Thus I am in the middle of the bridge of Brooklyn,
In the midst of all the bridges of the world.
The noble neo-gothic arches of Manhattan bidding me farewell,
those of Brooklyn awaiting me.
This middle of the road, this power to choose
between continuing or returning, this no-man’s-land
in the middle of the air is, like Whitman wrote,
the best medicine for the soul.
Isn’t the soul also something aerial?
Seated on this bench, in the middle of the bridge,
the jam stops a large black limousine
right between the interstices of the woodwork.
It moves toward Brooklyn but it returns to Manhattan
And so on and so forth.
Here I feel how the axis of my life becomes displaced
from the past unto the present and the four eyes
of the arches conceive my future.
The towers of the bridge, on either side,
despite the fog, they are clearly
defined. They are the twin sisters of the other giants.
Am I daydreaming? Or, more precisely, am I waking from a dream?
I am halfway there and I linger.
My friends take a seat by me,
meanwhile someone takes a photo of us that is veiled
by a cyclist who passes without stopping.
Sorry!
Sorry!
She cries raising her arms from the handlebar.
At least something remained etched in us
of her fresh face.I cross bridges just as storms.
What side will they cast us?
I seek repose in all things.
All of whom passed I met when
I was under the leaves of the fig tree.
When I am weak, then I am strong,
my strength is powerful in weakness.
I cross bridges just as I leave dreams in hotels.
And through the towpaths flow impassive rivers.
Seated upon the bench I remain in silence.
The silence belongs to the art of oratory.
It rains over the Paraná.
It snows over the Neva.
My gaze is so innocent that it deceives. 

“Cruzando puentes” © César Antonio Molina. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Francisco Macías. All rights reserved.

Cruzando Puentes

Crucé el Moldava por el puente de Carlos.
Crucé el Neva por el puente de la Trinidad.
Crucé el Danubio por el puente de los Leones.
Crucé el Moscova por el puente Novoarbatski.
Crucé el Sava por el puente de Branko.
Crucé el Tíber por el ponte Sant´Angelo.
Crucé el Sena por el puente Mirabeau.
Crucé los puentes de hierro oxidado sobre el inmenso Paraná,
en Gualeguaychu,
y el no menos caudaloso río Santa Lucía
a la entrada del antiguo Montevideo.
Y ahora estoy atravesando el East River
por el puente de Brooklyn.
¿Cuál de ellos será el puente de mis sueños?
Estoy inmóvil en el aire a mitad de camino entre
Manhattan y Brooklyn. El East River a mis pies:
denso, deshabitado, sin fluir. Así mi sangre.
Y una poca brisa levantando las faldas de las escolares.
A mitad de camino como el ombligo de aquella joven,
a mitad de camino entre la camiseta encogida
y el comienzo de su pubis marcado por el caído pantalón.
Así estoy yo en medio del puente de Brooklyn,
en medio de todos los puentes del mundo.
Los nobles arcos neogóticos de Manhattan despidiéndome,
esperándome los de Brooklyn.
Esta mitad del camino, este poder elegir
entre continuar o regresar, esta tierra de nadie
en medio del aire es, como escribió Whitman,
la mejor medicina para el alma.
¿No es el alma también algo aéreo?
Sentado en este banco, en medio del puente,
el atasco detiene a una gran limusina negra
justo entre los intersticios del maderamen.
Va hacia Brooklyn pero regresa a Manhattan
y así sucesivamente.
Aquí siento cómo el eje de mi vida se desplaza
desde el pasado al presente y los cuatro ojos
de los arcos conciben mi futuro.
Las torres del puente, a uno y otro lado,
a pesar de la neblina, están claramente
definidas. Son hermanas gemelas de los otros gigantes.
¿Sueño despierto o, más bien, despierto del sueño?
Estoy a mitad del camino y remoloneo.
Mis amigos toman asiento junto a mí,
mientras uno nos hace una foto que es velada
por una ciclista que pasa sin detenerse.
¡Sorry!
¡Sorry!
grita levantando los brazos del manillar.
Al menos se quedó en nosotros algo impreso
de su fresco rostro. 
Cruzo puentes como tormentas.
¿A qué lado nos echarán?
Busco reposo en todas las cosas.
A cuantos pasan los conocí cuando
estaba bajo las hojas de la higuera.
Cuando soy débil, entonces soy fuerte,
mi fuerza es poderosa en las debilidades.
Cruzo puentes como dejo sueños en los hoteles.
Y por los caminos de sirga fluyen ríos impasibles.
Sentado sobre el banco permanezco en silencio.
El silencio pertenece al arte de la oratoria.
Llueve sobre el Paraná.
Nieva sobre el Neva.
Mi mirada es tan inocente que engaña.

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